


Don't You Trust Me?

by Centelope



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Mild kid torture, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tarsus IV, hahaha, that's all it is really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12993579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centelope/pseuds/Centelope
Summary: Jim hasn't had to have surgery since Tarsus. When he finds out he needs one, it doesn't go down well with him or McCoy. Mostly a PTSD story.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Tarsus IV – During the massacre. _

“As a community—as a people, we need money to exchange goods—for food. Now money as a way of exchange may have been abolished years ago, but we will need it to survive. We must trade. And to do that, our traders want something in return for their money. And that would be…your insignificant bodily parts.”

There were sounds of gasping and muttering throughout the crowd that had gathered to hear what Kodos had to say. Some muffled cries were heard in the distance.

“As for the children- we will not ask them to participate in such a…traumatic event. So, to ensure that they remain unscarred, I have developed a plan. The children who still have the teeth from their childhood will have them pulled. Upon entering adolescence, a new tooth will form. They will remain unscathed.”

The mutters and cries grew louder as parents were desperate to protect their children.

Or for Jim Kirk, he was desperate to protect his kids.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispered as the younger ones began to cling onto him in terror. _How_ he was going to stop them was another plan, but false hope was better than no hope—for this situation at least.

_3 days later._

Jim were planning with his kids a plan to escape. They were first planning to run to the forest at night, where security was lacking the most, and take as much food as they can with them.   
Jim of course would give up all his food for them.

Their meeting abruptly came to an end when a soldier burst into their tent, practically ripping it at the seams and reaching for Jim.   
All of his kids screamed and shuffled back, but he didn’t cry out; he didn’t want to scare them more than they already were.

 _He_ was the victim this time, and that was okay. His kids were safe. That was okay.

“Come on, little boy,” the soldier hissed in his ear, hauling him over the shoulder.   
Instinctively, he struggled, and when out of visual range of the tent, he kicked and thrashed around, being that his kids couldn’t see him weak. “You know where we are going, don’t you?” he had an accent that Jim couldn’t quite put his finger on, probably having come from Earth. He certainly looked human.

“Yeah, I know where the _fuck_ you’re taking me,” Jim spat, beginning to kick around again. More and more children were being taken and returned with tons of missing teeth; part of Kodos’ _exchange plan._

“It will be quick, do not worry. You are child, we give you slice of bread after completion.”

Jim rolled his eyes, trying to twist his neck into the right position so he could bite into the soldier’s arm or something. But he was covered head to toe in uniform.

He was taken into a damp room, one single light hanging from the ceiling. It looked almost like a ward, rows of cubicles fitted across the room, perhaps about six of them, except instead of beds there were what appeared to be dental chairs. But apparently, he would be given food for this. And that would mean more food to give to his kids. So, he went along with it.

 _For my kids, I’ll do anything,_ he encouraged himself, _I can feed them if I do this._

He was led towards a chair, and he tried and successfully managed to keep his anxiety at bay. As usual, towards the staff, he came off as an uncaring, rebellious, difficult son of a bitch that was hard to control. So, it surprised them when he quickly sat down, lay back and just told them to ‘get on with it’.

Someone strolled in and sat down beside him, no greeting, not even looking him in the eye. The man quickly grabbed something from under the bed, and pulled it up and over his body, realising they were restraints.  
it couldn’t hurt that bad, could it…?

“OK, little man, you will remain very still, otherwise it will hurt much more.” The ‘doctor’ informed him, grabbing something from the tray and bending over his mouth. “You open your mouth now, or I will make you open your mouth.”

Jim shuddered in the chair; the only thing he could see above him was the ceiling and the hovering doctor. He felt _so_ god damn _vulnerable,_ lying on his back on a dental chair at the mercy of this supposed ‘doctor’ that was going to pull half his teeth out.

The doctor glared at him, but he once again remained silent and refused.

“Open your mouth right now, little man, or else!”

Jim shrugged, remaining his eye-locked on the ceiling.

His rebellious act of course was not well taken, as there was a disgruntled grunt and the _clang_ of something being grabbed from the tray, before something was being stuffed into his mouth, forcing his jaw to open.

“There you go. Good boy. Now you will receive the food after all.”

Jim tried to mouth curses and insults at the doctor but failed miserably through the gag.

All of a sudden, a loud cry from the cubicle next to him brought him out of his unruly state; everything hit him at once and he was _terrified._ Pretty much all of his teeth were about to be removed, without anaesthetic, and it was going to _hurt._

“No, stop!” he tried to shout through the gag, as a tool descending towards him mouth. He struggled in the restraints, kicking, fighting, shouting, until a high-pitched whirring hit the air, followed by a sudden wave of pain as the metal hit his gumline.   
Jim thrashed, screaming curses at the doctor, his vision blurring and distorting through the pain, his body threatening to lose consciousness.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Please! Stop! Stop—I’ll do any—Stop! Please! Pleeeease! Pleeeease! Pleeeease!” he begged, sobbing at the endless pain.

“Shut up, you pathetic child!” the man almost shouted over the noise of the drill, purposefully hitting his gum just to make it cry out again as ‘punishment’.

Then the noise stopped, and the doctor reached over to the tray again, returning with a pair of tweezers. Jim gripped his little fingers around the chair, his nails digging into the rubber as he waited for the impending pain.

Sure enough, the tweezers clamped over his incisor and he screamed, thrashing and begging like a tortured animal, before the tooth was finally yanked out and dropped onto a tray.

“Good boy. Let’s see…” the doctor peered over his mouth again, counting something with the instrument in his hand. “Seven more to go.”

Jim tensed up in the seat, shaking his head frantically, “No. No—not again, please, it hurts, you don’t understand! It hurts, I swear you don’t have to give me any food just stop! You—you don’t have to feed me again! P-please! Please—pl—agg!” his cries were halted when the drill was inserted into his mouth again.

White hot pain dug into his mouth like being stabbed with a million poisoned needles, like having your hand slashed with a knife, slowly, over and over. 

Seconds later, he passed out.

……………

_ Current time, on the Enterprise. _

Jim protectively curled his fingers around his abdomen, gazing up at the reflection in the mirror.

What stared back at him was a pale man, an unshaven stubble forming, his hair looking like he hadn’t washed it in weeks. He honestly looked like someone Starfleet grabbed a homeless guy from the streets and plonked him in a command chair.

It was hard to sleep, with the constant aching pain in his abdomen; dull, but it was there, and it was all he could think of whenever he shut his eyes.

Any normal person what have sought out medical help by now, but not Jim. He felt sick all the time—when was the last time he ate?   
Doctor McCoy had managed to find and drag him aside, lecturing him on his terrible eating habits, and Jim had promised to eat more. But screw that, he’d throw up anything, even a grain of rice.

His next physical was today. He was absolutely dreading it. He’d put it off five times, rescheduling it, delaying and finding excuses, even lied about being in a conference with Starfleet before McCoy caught him laying on his bed with his PADD doing absolutely nothing. Now there was no excuse.

It felt like he was dragging his feet on the floor on the way to the bridge. The persistent aching in his chest wouldn’t leave him alone, pulsing and begging to be noticed.

Jim angrily thumped his fist into his chest, wincing at the pain that flared up.   
“Fuck off!” he hissed to himself, to the pain that could not hear him, “Just fuck off for five minutes!”

The pain didn’t listen to him, all the way onto the bridge. He sat down on the chair, making eye contact with everyone to not cause any alarm, desperately holding both hands at his sides. How he was going to make it through today was a mystery.

“Good morning, Captain,” Spock said—the only person that had actually greeted him. Perhaps everyone _was_ suspicious; in fact, looking around at their faces, they all seemed concerned.

Why? It wasn’t like he was holding his chest or giving away any obvious signs.  
Regardless…

“Morning Spock,” he croaked out, grimacing at how weak he sounded.

“Am I right in assuming that you have a scheduled physical today?”

Great, so he _was_ suspicious.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“At what time?”

 _God, go away, go away, leave the fucking matter alone,_ Jim internally begged, leaning back on the chair and trying to straighten himself up to look more ‘captain-y”.

“At ten hundred hours,” he muttered back to the pushy Vulcan. He knew what was coming next…

“Then, you will be late if you do not leave within the next eighty-seven seconds,” Spock retorted in an almost bossy tone.

 _I know that. I know that._ “Fine, Spock, uh… you take the bridge.”   
God, he really didn’t want to go. But he didn’t want to raise suspicions by refusing to go for the sixth time that month. Everyone was looking at him funny anyway.

“Of course. Good luck, Captain.”

Jim had stop himself from spitting “ _I don’t need luck,”_ at the Vulcan in a vicious tone, but made it out into the turbolift successfully.

Upon turning around, everyone, _everyone_ on the bridge was staring at him. He shuddered.  
“Sickbay.” He ordered the controls, unhearing of the confirming _beep_ and the doors hissing shut.

As soon as he were on his own, he instinctively gripped his chest again.   
God, it _hurt,_ it hurt so fucking bad. It felt like there was something in his chest, waiting to explode. He wanted it to stop, but he didn’t want a physical. He didn’t want to go to sickbay. And he didn’t want to be lectured by McCoy for letting it get this bad.

The doors hissed open, revealing the corridor to sickbay—only six doors down.   
He still had time to run. His deck was a floor down, he could run back into the turbolift, retreat to his quarters and stay there for an hour, pretend he had the physical and come back to the bri—

“Captain!”

Jim didn’t notice Chapel appear around the corner of the curved corridor.

“Uh, hey,” he muttered, wondering if she heard him, slowly making his way to walk up to her. “Sorry, um, am I late?”

_Stop sounding so insecure and pathetic, you’re the Captain. Act like it._

“No, you’re right on time, come on in,” Chapel offered a welcoming smile, gesturing her hand inside the room, knowing Jim would probably run away if she went in first. “I’ll just get McCoy for you—”

“No, wait!” Jim shouted suddenly, causing some alarmed heads inside sickbay to pop up. He didn’t mean to do that…   
Chapel gave him a questioning look.

“Sorry…sorry, I just—we’ve had a falling out, haha. I’d rather be seen by someone else, if that’s okay?”

He trusted Bones. He really did. But he did _not_ want him doing the physical on him right now.   
The impending lectures and chastising for neglecting his health were too much to handle.

Not that he’d be telling anyone that.

“Oh, uh, sure, you’re the Captain. As long as you actually have your physical, it’s fine. You’re not getting out of this one!” Chapel joked, leading him towards the nearest biobed and quickly drawing the curtains. “I am the only one on duty though, so it’s either me or McCoy.”

Jim nodded, “You’ll do.”   
Chapel was better than McCoy at this point. He was almost _frightened_ to be examined by McCoy. He had no idea why, it made no sense. Nothing had happened between them—hell, he’d lied about having an argument. But the thought of it made his nausea worse.

He felt his legs shaking, and he sat down on the biobed quickly.

“You feeling okay, Captain? You don’t look so good,” she said idly, pulling over a tray of equipment and setting the bio-monitors up. “Let me just get your allergy list up here…”

Jim shrugged, not wanting to admit how truly shit he felt.   
“I’m good, just had some trouble sleeping, is all.”

Chapel smiled, tapping away on the monitors, “Starfleet negotiations keeping you up?”

So, McCoy _didn’t_ tell her that Jim had lied about that. Well, at least he was able to keep _some_ secrets.

“Something like that,” Jim lied, gripping his shirt and yanking it off in one go. “Just hurry up so I can leave, I’m needed on the bridge.”

Chapel rolled her eyes, reading off the charts that began displaying, and her smirk turned into a frown.

Jim knew he was dead right there and then.

She picked up a scanner, hovering it over Jim from head to toe, then moved back up to his abdomen and chest again, watching the monitor as it fed back the results.

Jim heard a quiet sigh, a sigh of stress, and then watched as she placed the scanner down. His anxiety was building by the second. He wanted to run. But he didn’t know why. It’s just a routine physical.

Chapel sat down, pulling up Jim’s black undershirt, “I’m just gonna have a feel of your stomach,” she murmured, looking mighty concerned.

_I’m so screwed I’m so screwed I’m so screwed…_

“Have you been feeling nauseous, fatigued, any pain or shortness of breath?”

Jim clenched his fingers tighter into a ball, “Um, yeah to everything except shortness of breath.”

“Where abouts is the pain?”

Jim took his fist and hit it against his chest. “Fucking there. All the fucking time. It doesn’t _fucking_ stop!”

Chapel exhaled and reached over to get another scanner, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jim slammed his head back on the bed in frustration. “I don’t know!”

“Is this why you were avoiding all your physicals?”

“I wasn’t avoiding all my physicals!”

“Uh-huh. Wait here, I need to get McCoy—”

“No, Christine, please!”

Chapel froze in front of the curtains and spun back around.

“Why not?”

Jim folded his arms together and let out a shaky breath.   
“I just don’t. I don’t know why, I just… I don’t, okay?”

Chapel sighed, aborting her previous plan to fetch the CMO and sat beside him.

“Jim, you need—”

“Yes, I know, don’t say it.” He interrupted her, not wanting to accept the facts. He’d left it for too long, and he _knew_ what was going to happen next time he got a check-up, and he wasn’t wrong.

“As McCoy is your surgeon, he needs to kn—”

“He doesn’t need to fucking know!”

Chapel clamped her mouth shut, trying to think of her next words. She gazed at him for a while, then at her own hands, and sighed.

“Jim, I don’t know why yet, but your right kidney is failing.”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut. “I fucking knew it was something like that.”

“You shouldn’t even be up and walking around, let alone in command right now.”

Jim shook his head. He didn’t want to believe it. He tried to ignore it and run away—something in his gut was telling him, _you’re gonna need surgery, you’re gonna need surgery,_ and he was right.

He hadn’t had surgery since…since Tarsus. Regardless of his reckless behaviour, his tendency to leap before looking—he was swiftly able to avoid any surgical intervention to his injuries thanks to the advances of medical technology.

But not this time.

“I’m not having it.” Jim stated firmly, set on the fact that _no-one_ was going to change his mind.

“Jim, if you don’t have this surgery, your prognosis is looking very very dim. You’ll eventually die.”

“That’s _Captain_ to you,” he hissed, rolling onto his side to avoid looking at her, “And exactly, I _will_ eventually die, like everyone else. It’s fine.”

There was a long tense pause, before he felt a hand on his shoulder a few seconds later.

“What’s gotten into you? I thought Captain fearless wasn’t afraid of anything?” Chapel joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Jim let out a shuddery sigh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“This is modern medicine. Can’t you do something else?”

“Modern medicine lets us make you grow a new kidney. But we need to remove the misfunctioning one first. There was a time where you’d be on dialysis for the rest of your life. Let us help you.” Chapel’s voice was gentle and understanding, not rough and angry like McCoy was. If he was having this conversation with Bones right now, he probably would have sedated him right there and then and dragged him into the OR against his will.

“I’m not having any surgery. Ever.” Jim protested. The thought of it was terrifying. The last time he had surgery, it was…it was terrifying. He didn’t want that again. Not ever.

“I’m afraid you’ll have no choice, Jim.”

“Can’t you do something else!?” he cried out, his voice breaking. Jim flushed red in embarrassment. _Shit. Act like a Captain. Act like a Captain._

“You left it for too long…sir. If we caught it early, we could repair it using an organ regenerator. But you’ve avoided all your physicals because you didn’t want us to find out, and now the damage is too severe.”

Jim didn’t reply. He was _not_ having surgery and that was final.

“Jim, let me go get McCoy.”

“No! Just—fuck off and leave me alone! I’m not letting any one of you touch me! Get out of here, that’s an order!”

Chapel, having no choice but to obey the order, stood up instantly and yanked the curtains back roughly, obviously in anger. If it was the CMO in here, Jim could shout at and harass orders all he wanted, but McCoy’s authority could override Jim’s.

As soon as Chapel was out of sight, Jim jumped up from the bed and darted out the curtains, and out the door before anyone could even lay eyes upon him.

………..

Back on the bridge, having now convinced everyone that he was fine following having the physical, everyone seemed a little more relaxed.

“We should reach Aljez VI in about half an hour, Captain,” Sulu reported from his station.

Jim nodded, his brain completely fogged up with anger, “Thanks helm.”

Spock was giving him _the look_ from across the room, and Jim was doing his best to avoid it.   
So, he tried to distract him instead.

“Spock, you want to decide on the landing party for this away mission?”

A surprised raised eyebrow happened upon the Vulcan, “Captain, that duty is for you to decide. I cannot determine who—”

“C’mon, Spock!” Jim smiled widely at him, “Just this once, you can decide this time. I mean it has to be me, you and McCoy,” he did his best to avoid stuttering at McCoy’s name, “But you decide the final person.”

Spock paused for a second, but relented. “Very well. I choose Ensign Regaz. Considering the mission is of the historic research nature, I believe the Ensign has an admirable track record of knowledge in the area, and would provide him a good opportunity for real experience.”

Jim grinned; Spock was starting to pick up on the _opportunities for everyone_ deal that Jim was going with, rather than the old _best people only_ that most other ships went for.

“That’s a good choice,” he replied, but then frowned as his PADD beeped.   
A new message?

He swiped it, and sure enough, a new message.

From McCoy.

His heart dropped. _Shit. Chapel had ratted him out to Bones?_

Reluctantly, he opened the message.

 _“11:34._  
Sender: Chief Medical Officer Doctor McCoy.  
Message: Christine told me everything, Jim. She hadn’t even managed to complete your physical before you ordered her to leave and bolted out yourself. I’m pissed that you let it get to this point. Maybe now you’ll start to listen to your doctor?   
You’re scheduled in for the surgery tomorrow at 1300 hours, under me. You can’t order it off and you can’t bloody condemn yourself to death and refuse it, because I have the authority to override your damn orders. You better show up, or I’ll get Spock to throw you over his shoulder and march you down here himself. Quit being such a baby. It’ll be over before you know it.

_McCoy.”_

Jim shakily turned the PADD off, and placed it aside.

All of a sudden, the nausea swelling around in his gut had become ten times worse. A lot worse, in fact.

He glanced up to Spock, desperate to make eye-contact. He needed out, _now._ He was too busy looking into the scanner.

In a desperate attempt to get Spock to hear him, Jim made a very quiet moan at the back of his throat. Quiet in human standards anyway.

Spock glanced up, having been able to just about hear the noise, then turned to Jim. Upon realising the Captain’s needy stare at him, he cocked his head to the side in question.

Jim just shook his head at him, hoping the motion and the fact that he was probably as pale as a sheet gave something away.

Almost instantly, Spock stood up out of his seat and approached Jim.   
“The Captain and I have a matter to attend to. Mister Sulu, take the conn.”

Surprisingly, nobody acted negatively in response to that. Either that or they were doing a very good job at hiding their worry.

“Aye sir,” Sulu replied, Kirk and Spock taking off out to the turbolift in silence.

As soon as the doors closed, Spock looked Jim up and down. He was scarily pale, with a slight hitch in his breath, likely from trying to quell a panic attack. His eyes looked wild, terrified.

“What is the matter, Jim?”

Jim shook his head again, stepping backwards until his back was against the wall.

“What the hell’s the matter with me?” he croaked, sliding down the wall until he was on the floor, hugging his knees up to his chest.

Spock hesitated for a moment, but approached him, kneeling beside him.

“Do you require Doctor McCoy?” he asked, knowing full well Jim was going to refuse.

“No—no way. No, I don’t need him. I just—need to get a few minutes break you know? Why don’t we have breaks on the bridge? Why do we have full 12-hour shifts?” Jim was on the verge of hyperventilating at this point.

“Is there something about the mission that upsets you?”

Jim sucked in a deep breath, and closed his eyes as he let out a shuddering exhale.

“No… no, Spock, sorry. I just… haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all,” Jim excused himself, “My mind’s a little foggy” he chuckled, shifting himself so he could stand up again.

But Spock wasn’t convinced.

“Captain, you have been tired before and have not needed a break.”

Jim clenched his fists together, ducking his head and trying to keep his breathing under control. His head was swimming, and white dots were clouding his vision.

“I’m gonna be sick.”

………..

A/N: **Weird place to leave it, huh? Lol. I think this is gonna be either 2 or 3 chapters, not sure yet, but I need a break from writing Sectioned. If you can, please guide your cursor to the comments section or the fav/kudos button and acknowledge the reading that I have presented to you.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is NOT having that surgery. No matter what. Spock gets himself into a bit of a pickle trying to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swearing warning, man.

“I’m gonna be sick—” Jim gasped, doubling over and successfully managing to vomit…all over his first officer.

“Shit! Spo—“ he was interrupted by the need to gag, turning away in time and throwing up over himself, “Sp-Spock, I didn’t—”

“It is quite alright, Jim,” Spock encouraged, seemingly completely oblivious to the mess over his blue shirt as he paid no mind to it, “However, you are certainly not fit for duty.”

Jim shook his head, his eyes twitching towards the doors and back to Spock. Would he stop him from leaving?

“No, I’m… I’m fine,” he breathed, knowing very well that he was  _not_ alright, though wasn’t going to admit it. Neither was he going to give into the temptation to rub his knuckles into his abdomen which was pulsing so bad. He began to  _feel_  his heart thrashing in his chest.

Spock took a step closer, “Forgive me, Captain, but upon observation, I believe that you are not, in your vernacular…acting your usual self.”

Jim tried to scoff, but it came out as a choked sigh instead.   
As if Spock was  _concerned_ about his mental health. “Why the-the hell do you-you care? I thought the fact that keeping me alive is the only im-importance here,” Jim retorted, regretting his words the second they left his mouth.

His throat was closing in—as if he couldn’t breathe—his breathing rapid; uncontrollable—gasping and shaking—in front of his first officer.

He slammed his hands over his head as unwelcome intrusive thoughts poured in—memories that he had tried to forget for so long.

_Tarsus._

_Jim woke up in a start—where was he? He quickly became aware of the pain in multiple areas of his mouth. Then it came to him—a doctor’s office. He was having his teeth pulled._

_He was aware of the straps around his legs, his torso and arms, restraining him to the chair and staring at the ceiling. There was no-one there. And he could still hear screaming from both sides of him._

_He ran his tongue inside his mouth—there were gaps. Everywhere. Every now and then his tongue would hit a tooth, most of his bottom teeth were missing. Why was he still tied down?_

_“You promised food!” Jim shouted nervously, although proudly his voice did not shake. He hoped someone would hear him, “What’s wrong? Too scared to let me go?” It was a pathetic comeback to a psychopath that just forced surgery upon a child, but it was all his racing mind could come up with._

_Then a voice, “Scared?” the voice grew louder, “Little boy, it is you who should be scared of me! Why do you want food? You have no teeth left to eat it with!” a man—the same one that had taken him, suddenly peered over him into his line of vision, a snarl on his face that matched the monstrosity of actions he had performed today._

_“Let me go, you son of a bitch! You got what you wanted!” Jim spat, an ache growing in the back of his head that was being pressed down to the chair._

_“Got what I wanted? Getting off this god-forsaken planet is what I want, and I can’t do it until we get more food, and we can’t get more food until we exchange them with body parts.”_

_“What fucked up kind of human being exchanges food for body parts!?” Jim yelled, knowing his behaviour would get him nowhere._

_“Apparently, our client,” the man disappeared for a second, and Jim momentarily relaxed.  
Until he found a hand yanking his mouth open and stuffing something down his throat. “Food. There you go boy, eat it! You wanted food! Eat it!”_

_Jim choked around the large chunk of bread being forced into his throat, blocking hope of any air coming through. The man lodged the dough further into his windpipe, patted his cheek with a smile and left. The last thing Jim remembered before passing out was the screaming coming to an erupt halt._

* * *

**The Enterprise.**

 

“Jim.”

 

“Jim.”

 

“Jim!”

Kirk jumped forward and landed on the figure calling for him, determined to beat the shit out of the person who caused him so much pain.   
He pinned the man to the ground, his eyes unseeing and blurred with tears he didn’t want to acknowledge, every fist blindly smacking the man across the face.

There were only three successful punches however, before the man’s strength suddenly grew superior to his, grabbing a hold of Jim’s fist in a firm grip, additional fingers pinched his shoulder before he blacked out again.

………….

Jim awoke once more, feeling as though some time had passed. His neck ached like a bitch, but he was laying on something very soft, which was very different to the turbolift’s metal floor.

Upon opening his eyes, he expected there to be a blindingly luminous ceiling—but instead, it was very dim, a notch darker and it would be pitch black. He could just about make out the shape of the ceiling light in the middle of the room.

“Captain?” a voice from his left asked, “Jim.”

Jim blinked slowly, turning onto his side with great effort, wincing at the sharp pain in his neck.   
He saw a figure in blue, sitting on his sofa, ram-rod straight.

“Spock?” he realised, trying to sit up, gasping and falling back down on the bed again.   
His shoulders hurt like a bitch!

“I apologise, Captain,” Spock muttered quietly, standing up from where he sat and very slowly made his way over to him. “I may have performed the nerve-pinch stronger than I had anticipated.”

Jim shifted himself into an upright position with a struggle, groaning at the strain. “Nerve pinch?” he questioned quietly, shutting his eyes for a second, “What?”

He heard a very quiet sigh—perhaps he imagined it. “You do not remember the events of the today?”

Jim narrowed his eyes, thinking long and hard about what had happened. He remembered the pain in his chest from waking up in the morning—the physical with Chapel and the argument about the…consequence, the rude message from McCoy, taking a ‘break’ in the turbolift—then nothing.

“I was in the turbolift…” he began, prompting Spock to answer the mystery for him.

“Indeed. You appeared preoccupied for a several minutes, then grew tearful for reasons unknown to me. I attempted to revert your attention back to the present, subsequently you began attacking myself. Inadvertently I had to stop you by any means necessary.” Spock seemed completely calm through the explanation, although Jim had just tried to beat the hell out of him.

Jim shook his head, ducking his head towards the floor. “What time is it? What about the bridge?” as it was dark, it was obvious several hours had gone. If he and Spock were both here, who had the bridge this whole time?

“I contacted Mister Sulu and requested that he remain in control of the bridge due to unforeseen circumstances.”

Jim raised his head to face Spock. “But what’s the time?”

Spock hesitated for a mere second before admitting, “It is twenty-three hundred hours.”

Instantly, Kirk shot up to stand and nearly stumbled over Spock in a panic, “I’ve been asleep for twelve hours!?”

Spock, of course, was unphased. “Indeed. I apologize. If you had not reacted so severely, I may have been inclined to call the doctor instead.”

Jim made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat, beginning to pace back and forth the room, to the annoyance of Spock.

“Captain, you do not need to be on the bridge until tomorrow. Please refrain from pacing and sit down.”

Jim froze. A thought popped into his mind out-the-blue. He spun round to Spock.

“Is…is what happened going to be on my record?” he could just imagine how quickly he would be decommissioned after having  _‘panic attack followed by attacking a superior officer’_  sitting on his record.

“Negative.”

Jim thought he misheard him.  _What?_ Surely something like  _that_ had to be put on the record by a medical officer.

“But Bones always puts stuff like this on record. Every time I  _trip_ he puts it on record.”

Spock seemed to just stare at him for a couple of seconds, apparently lost for words somehow.   
Was that even possible?

“I did not inform the doctor of the incident.”

Jim frowned again. Perhaps he was still dreaming. Maybe Spock had actually mind-melded with him and he was in a dream. Huh.

“It is not a decision that I took lightly.”

Now  _that_ sounded more like Spock.

“But why? I attacked you, Spock, I…I fucked up in front of everyone,”

Spock’s expression softened briefly. “Negative, your momentary lapse in judgement was only in front of me.”

Jim swallowed thickly. Both of them were breaking some serious rules here. What had happened earlier was absolutely something that had to be reported to a medical officer.

“You could get screwed because of this.”

The expression of Spock’s face made it clear that he knew it himself.

“I am aware. However, I would request in return that you tell me what it is that happened at the time of the incident.”

Damn. That was something that he did not want to think about. More  _if’s_ and  _but’s_ drifted through his head.   
What if Spock told Bones everything that he would tell him?   
What if this was some big ploy to get him to spill the beans because he certainly was never going to tell Bones?  
What if this was all a way to guilt him into admitting what had happened so that he could relay that information onto his record?

 “I don’t…I don’t know, Spock,” he mumbled quietly. He certainly didn’t want to replay the memory in his head.   
When the Vulcan didn’t reply, Jim sighed and sat back down on his bed, leaning forward with head drooped down.

He felt the presence of the other man grow nearer.   
“Perhaps it would be easier if I simply performed a mind-meld. With your consent, of course.”

Jim didn’t move his head this time, remained frozen in place with his body changing from a leaning to a hunched over position.

“Captain? Are you well?”

Jim made an evasive noise to get him off his back, becoming aware of the pain in his chest again. Was it another panic attack? Why? The pain was beginning to spread down into his abdomen. He didn’t want to move.

After a few more moments of silence, footsteps began clomping across the room.

“I will contact the doctor.”

At that, Jim bolted upright, crying out in pain and promptly collapsing onto his stomach on the floor.

“Spock!” he shouted desperately, his voice vibrating against the floor, “I’ll tell you! Just-just don’t get Bones, please, god damn it!”

The footsteps stopped, and the seconds of unknown dragged on longer than Jim desired, “You are in pain, Jim. There is something wrong. You must accept help.”

Jim groaned into the floor and rolled onto his back, “I have kidney failure, okay?” he strained out, his voice quivering with the pain, “Christine told me I needed surgery, Bones forced me into it. Supposed to have it tomorrow.”

He watched as Spock twisted his arms behind his back and walked beside the blonde, standing over him. “Forced?”

Jim squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to be reassured that Bones would not come. If he saw him like this, he’d be dragged into the OR without question.

“I didn’t want it. I refused. I don’t want surgery. You can’t… you shouldn’t be able to force surgery onto someone. Bones found out and forced me into it, saying he can override everything I say just because he’s the ‘chief medical officer’ or some shit.” he wrapped an arm around his pulsating abdomen, wincing and ignoring a tear leaking out of his eye, “It’s not fair…it’s not fucking fair.”

Spock, surprisingly, knelt beside him, but only stared at Jim, obviously at a loss of what to do. It was clear he wanted to help, but didn’t know how.

“I do not understand why you do not wish for a procedure that will end your discomfort. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Jim smirked a scoff, shaking his head and sighing. He hadn’t told anyone about Tarsus. It was on his record, but only under the confidential section that the ship’s CMO and admirals had access to.

Bones obviously hadn’t had the chance to look yet, because he hadn’t been dragged into his office with a bottle of alcohol presented to him as a bribe for information. And Bones wanted to know  _everything._

“I haven’t…I haven’t had surgery since I was 8,” Jim began, already feeling the knot in his stomach began to form, “I was…in a bad place, and I don’t just mean mentally. There were bad people, and…and a lot of people were suffering, Spock, including me. They wanted—they  _needed_ food, and some guys from another world opened a trade deal to Kod—to our leader, saying they would exchange organs for food. We never found out why, but nobody questioned it, because hey, we’d do anything for food,” he forced a smile to try lighting up the conversation, but Spock looked even more solemn than was natural for him.

“Anyway…at some point it was my turn. For kids, well they couldn’t harvest our organs because that’s f-fucked up. So, they pulled children’s teeth instead, ju-justifying it by saying it’d grow back into adult teeth. I—they—it just—I—”

“I understand, Jim.” Spock cut him off of his stuttering explanation, reasonably cautious of the young man panicking again. “Essentially, you are afraid of Doctor McCoy performing the surgery, in the fear that he will harvest your organs, and/or purposefully exploit pain.”

For a moment, Jim’s breath hitched in his chest at the thought of it. That wasn’t the only time a doctor had hurt him. But he nodded weakly.

“Illogical.”

He blew out a chuckled sigh, shaking his head and getting to his feet again, wanting to move—to pace.

“I do not understand. Doctor McCoy is known as the most accomplished surgeon in the fleet. It is not logical to think in the way that you are about him, as it is simply extremely improbable.”

Jim pursed his lips together, pacing around the room frantically, “You  _don’t_  understand, Spock. That’s the problem. Panicking is illogical. Phobias are illogical. Everything about this whole fucking situation is illogical, I can’t help it! I wish I could march right in there and tell him to get it over with, I wish I could finish a physical without the urge to fucking run for my life, I wish I could—argh!”

Jim ran to the nearest wall and slammed his fist in it as hard as he could.

“Fuck!” he yelled to his throbbing red fist. That hurt.

“Jim,” Spock ushered, “If you simply explained the situation to the doctor, I am certain he would accommodate you, regardless of his exasperating tendencies.”

“I can’t! I just fucking can’t!” he felt himself go red in the face as tears weld up in his eyes again. This behaviour made no sense. Why was he freaking out so much? Why he was always on the verge of crying?

“Then allow me.”

“No!” he didn’t want him to know. He was afraid of him knowing. Telling him wasn’t the problem, it was what he would actually  _do_ that seemed daunting.

Spock merely remained quiet, thankfully stopped prompting him, and stared down at Jim’s hand. It was still radiating with pins-and-needles from whacking it so hard against the wall.

“May I enquire the time of your appointment?”

Jim swallowed hard, then tried to ignore the fact that it was literally  _today._ The surgery was  _today._

“Uh…1400 hours.”

Spock tilted his head in thought, “It is now oh-one hundred hours. Perhaps you should sleep. You will have time to consider my several propositions when you awaken before the surgery takes place.”

Jim felt his heart skyrocket at the mention of it. He was vaguely aware that he was beginning to shake—why was he shaking? This was ridiculous. He  _knew_ it was ridiculous. But he was scared, and wished he wasn’t.

“Fine…Fine, I’ll sleep, but I want to be alone, yeah? I just can’t sleep when someone else is in the room.”

Spock opened his mouth to make a retort, but quickly changed his mind considering the situation and bowed his head in acknowledgement of his request. “Very well. Goodnight, Jim.”

Jim watched as Spock left the room. The second the door hissed shut, leaving him alone in the room, the tears welling in his eyes spilled out in an endless stream down his face, shoving his head into the pillow until he cried himself to sleep from exhaustion.

 _Pathetic._ He told himself.  _Pathetic._

* * *

0700 hours.

A high-pitched droning noise brought Jim out of his restless slumber. If you could even call it that. He certainly didn’t sleep.

There was a heavy burden on his chest, weighing him down and making it difficult to move. His hands shook as he tried to slam a fist onto the alarm. He didn’t want to get out of bed, or move at all.

In fact, he didn’t even want to be on the bridge today. He was too miserable to even get out of bed, perhaps if he hid under the blankets long enough then the inevitable will just disappear.

As the alarm droned on and on, Jim gave up and called out to the room, “Computer, silence the alarm.”

The beeping stopped instantly, much to Jim’s relief. This meant it was now 0700 hours, and he was due on the bridge in ten minutes to relieve the night-duty crew.

But to hell with it. He didn’t want to go, he was going to stay in his room, where no-one could get to him, the only place where he could feel safe.

His mind taunted him, pushing the reminder that in 7 hours, he was due the surgery.   
Fuck that. Screw that. He was utterly terrified, and was  _not_ going to go.

Was there a way to avoid it? Weren’t there situations where surgery was deemed too dangerous and  _not_ allowed? Perhaps if he did a little bit of research, he could find an easy way to get out of the hole that he’d dug himself into.

But first, he had to relieve himself from the bridge.

Tentatively, he pulled out his communicator and comm’d Spock, assuming that he would be on the bridge at least an hour before he was even due.

“Kirk to Spock,”

Of course, he answered.

“Spock here, Captain.”

Now how was he going to get out of this? He should have planned in advance. He never ever tried to get time off the bridge before, he  _loved_ it too much. Maybe even that alone would convince Spock that he was too ill to be on the bridge.

Wait a second. Illness. Yes! Of course! That would easily get him excused from the bridge!

“Spock, unfortunately I have to report that I’ll be unable to report for duty today, I’ve uh…I’ve come down with a fever,” he lied, then sniffed for effect.

“I see. Very well, I will take temporary command over the vessel today. Will you see Doctor McCoy?”

“Yeah, I’m on my way to see him now,” Jim lied again, still resting in bed, “Can’t wait to get this fever down, y’know?”  _Damn, a very smooth excuse, Jim._

“Of course, Captain.” Spock sounded like he wanted to say more, but obviously chose instead, “I believe the human term is: Get well soon.”

Jim ended the comm right there and then. The only concern hovering around his mind was that McCoy would be alerted. But then again, he had told Spock that he was on his way to  _see_ McCoy, so perhaps he would think it would be illogical to report it to him when Jim was going to see him anyway.

Boy, sometimes Spock’s stubborn logicalness had its advantages. Now to somehow find a way to get out of the surgery and he was done. He could stop worrying.

Jim whipped out his PADD and went straight into the information banks, researching everything and anything he could think of that will get him out of the apparently mandatory procedure.

_Reasons to not have surgery._

_When doctors refuse surgery._

_How to not have surgery._

_Can I refuse surgery what are my rights?_

_Why do CMO’s get to put their wants over my wants._

He eventually stumbled upon an Q&A section for  _children and surgery._

One of the questions were:

_What happens if I drink alcohol the day before the surgery?_

He smirked to himself and continued reading.

_Unfortunately, Starfleet medical protocol states that you must remain sober at least two days before your surgery. This is due to alcohol thinning the blood and putting you at risk of prolonged bleeding and infection. Surgery will have to be rescheduled if this is the case._

Bingo.

All he had to do was get himself drunk, then bam, no more surgery. Why didn’t he think of this before? He probably would have started drinking from his nervousness anyway.

With that in mind, Jim hopped out of bed, immediately regretting his overly-enthusiastic actions as it played havoc on his still painful stomach.   
Then, with one hand wrapped around his belly, he opened the cabinet under his desk, observing all the different stashes of alcoholic beverages he had hidden away.

Jim snatched up a bottle called ‘ _Furore’_ and snapped the cap off. It didn’t take much convincing himself to begin chugging as much as the beverage down as he possibly could, mostly hoping for it to ease his anxiety more than anything else.

It didn’t take long before he was sifting through other bottles, grabbing and breaking the caps off with his impending blurred vision, feeling unable to stop himself until every alcoholic beverage in the room was gone.

And that was  _a lot_ of alcohol.

* * *

“Well, maybe next time try turning the damn machine off before you yank all the wires out and electrocute yourself! It’s basic science, man!” McCoy was yelling at an unfortunate redshirt that had managed to get himself electrocuted while performing an upgrade to the impulse engines.

“Sir, if I turn the machine off then the entire ship will stop moving, and that would mean being stationary for 7 hours. The Captain wouldn’t allow that!” the poor fellow defended himself, really wanting to bolt up and run out of medical.

“Dammit man, I’m a doctor, not an engineer!” Bones retorted, slamming the regenerator as hard as he possibly could on the tray to demonstrate how angry he was, which wasn’t very much. “Now, go on, get out of here.”

The other man didn’t hesitate to haul himself away from the biobed and literally jog out the room as fast as he could. Bones shook his head, swearing internally about how careless some of these engineers can be.

At that moment, Chapel strode out of another cubicle and up to McCoy, who caught her eye.

“Hey, Christine,” he smirked, “There many people left around here or what? I’m sure I’ve discharged at least twelve people today for the same damn reason, need to have some words with Scotty…”

Chapel chuckled to herself and shrugged, “There’s three scientists who got injured on an away mission, but that’s it. When’s the Captain due in?”

Bones reset the biobed monitors from his last victim and sighed, “Supposed to be here at two, but I’m betting someone will have to go get him.” He turned to check the time displayed on the wall, 1356. It was extremely unlikely Jim was going to turn up. He had already sent three comm reminders with no reply. The surgery was dead-on 1400, he was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.

“You got the scans from his physical yesterday?” he asked, deciding he might as well get the information together while they waited for the Captain to no doubt never show up.

“I couldn’t get any scans before he shooed me out,” Chapel admitted, “But there’s a massive loss of renal function in his right kidney, here,” she passed her PADD over to McCoy to read, who scrutinized it.

He narrowed his eyes at the half-results that Chapel had managed to conjure up with the half-physical. And frowned.

“That’s a pretty damn high fever for kidney failure,” McCoy noted, scrolling through the rest of the readings with a deep scowl on his face, “Bio-monitors registered swelling in his abdomen—Chris did you record this?”

At that, Chapel looked up in confusion and strode back over to read it again, and sure enough was presented with readings that she didn’t even see herself.

“Those results never came up while I was scanning him?” she questioned in confusion, daring to glance up at the absolute horror that was visibly present on McCoy’s face.

“Shit, we need to get him down here  _now,”_ he demanded, placing the PADD aside and running to his communicator.

“Jim, it’s McCoy, listen, you need to get your backside down here  _now._ Don’t make me get Spock on you.” And once again, it went to the voice mail equivalent on his communicator.

Swearing, McCoy darted over to the wall comm. Chapel followed the alarmed doctor and raced after him,

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

McCoy shook his head and desperately started pressing the comm buttons to Spock’s personal communicator, “It’s not kidney failure, damn it, it’s appendicitis, and it’s burst and infected his right kidney,”

Chapel stared at him in shock, her lips agape and lost for words as she just stood idly by and watched McCoy try to get Spock.

“Spock, it’s McCoy. You need to get Jim down to medical,  _now._ He’s not answering his comm and the problem isn’t what I thought it was,” he nearly shouted down the comm.

“Why can’t we just go and get him?” Chapel asked. There was only three people in here.

“Because everyone else is on shore leave and I’m in here on my own. At least one person has to be present at all times, we’re abandoning protocol if we both leave, and he isn’t someone I can deal with on my own—shit, how am I going to do the surgery with no staff?” McCoy ran a hand through his head at the sudden influx of dilemmas and whipped up his communicator again.

“Boyce? It’s McCoy, I need you to get a medical team of six together for surgery and an additional two to watch over sickbay while I’m gone.”

Chapel frowned, “If the surgery was due then why did you agree to let them all go on shore leave?”

McCoy took a deep breath to stop himself from yelling, “Because I can extract a kidney on my own, dammit! If I had any fucking idea that we’d need to be doing emergency surgery I would never have let them go, would I?” he swore and slammed his communicator down, “I was planning on getting Boyce up to help me with the extraction while you took over sickbay anyway, but now we have no staff and Jim’s fuckin’ dying god-knows where— ** _fuck!”_**

Chapel sighed and led McCoy over to one of the biobeds to sit on, “Calm down, you’re no use to him stressed out like this.”

But McCoy just muttered another string of curses and shook his head, “I hate not being able to drag him down here myself. What if Spock takes too long?”

“Usually every other patient would come down here at the right time, there’s normally no need for someone to have to collect them. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she reassured him.

McCoy wishes he could do more, but he’d have to wait for Spock to bring Jim down himself, either willingly or unconscious hanging over his shoulder.

To Be Continued...

**A/N: Okay, that was interesting. Hopefully we've all established that Jim has a massive phobia over this surgery by now and gets himself in a state over it.** **Find out what happens next time, where Bones discovers Jim's phobia when everything absolutely goes to shit (even more than it already has)**

**If you can, please guide your cursor to the comments section or the fav/kudos button and acknowledge the reading that I have presented to you.**


	3. Chapter 3

“Captain?” Spock nearly shouted to the door in front of him, “Jim?” He was ordered rather abruptly to chase down Jim and drag him up to sickbay, but the doctor had been very vague about why.

It left a lingering feeling of uncertainty in his stomach, but it only served to make him more determined to find the man he was after.

When there was no reply or sign that the door was going to open any time soon, Spock punched in the emergency override that was only given to himself and McCoy, and slipped into the room before the door had even finished opening.

What awaited him was a room littered with shattered pieces of glass, and some fully-intact bottles of alcohol abandoned in an almost circle-like formation around the Captain.

The Captain himself however was on his back, clearly unconscious with his hands covered with blood, no doubt an injury from the glass fragments.

“Captain?” Spock inquired, approaching the figure on the floor. The action was illogical as he obviously was unconscious and unable to answer. Jim’s face was ashen and still.

He knelt beside him, unable to push aside the anxiety that flitted in his stomach as he pressed two fingers against Jim’s neck. That worry quickly resolved itself when he felt a very faint but rapid pulse against his fingertips. He cringed at the strong smell of alcohol radiating from the blonde.

Immediately, Spock whipped out his communicator. There was a danger in carrying Jim to sickbay if moving him could cause a bleed.

“Spock to McCoy,” he said with urgency, impulsively gripping Jim’s wrist and reassuring himself that the man was still alive.

_“McCoy here—Spock, have you found him?”_

“Affirmative, however he appears to have been injured, I am unsure about moving him.”

_“Shit—okay hold on. Nurse? Yeah, I need to get to him. Can you—yeah thank you. I’ll be right there Spock.”_

Spock nodded to himself despite nobody being able to see, and hurled the communicator on the floor so he still had access to both Jim and getting help.

Briefly, he spotted Jim’s eyes flickering, and tightened his grip on the man’s wrist.

“Jim?” he probed, attempting to make sure that the Captain completed his effort at returning to consciousness.

The baby blues opened sluggishly, it was evident that he was confused.

“Spock?” Jim croaked out, his head turning to look at who was holding his wrist. “Where…ugh…”

Spock frowned when Jim shut his eyes again, gently shaking him on the shoulder, “Jim, you must not fall asleep,” he urged, hoping that McCoy was sprinting all the way here.

“M’tired…n’ my ‘ead ‘urts…g’night…”

“No, Jim, I insist that you must remain awake,” Spock let go of Jim’s wrist and placed both hands over his face in desperation. Floods of confusion originating from Jim swamped his mind as he made contact, but it did nothing, and eventually Jim lost consciousness again.

* * *

“…..Damn…..poisoning….hold……bottles…..” fragments of speech washed over Jim, his brain struggling to drag its way to consciousness.

“Is…breathing?”

“…Appears…struggling…tried to…but failed…” Words began to piece together now as his mind began to kick in properly, he vaguely was able to feel hands brushing over his head. Speaking of his head, he had a huge headache, kind of like a sledgehammer being repeatedly smashed against his skull.

“Poisoning is really bad, Spock, I might have to intubate. Here, hold this,”

Jim could feel his chest struggling to rise and fall, and with every inhale his throat felt constricted, but at the same time, there was no panic. He didn’t care. It was like all the threats of the world was unbeknownst to him.

“I’m gonna intubate and get him on the hoverbed,”

“What about the surgery?”

“I can’t do it when he’s drunk himself into alcohol poisoning, the damn idiot, it’s too dangerous, so I’m gonna give him a temporary hypo to stop the infection from spreading and run a detox through him, should give him enough time to get him through surgery, maybe,”

“Maybe?”

“It’s not looking good, Spock,”

At that moment, Jim felt his mouth being pried open and something being shoved down the back of it—instantly his fight-or-flight responses kicked in.

Jim jolted, his eyes flew open, his throat attempting to unleash a scream as someone tried to block his airway, just like the horrible doctor did on Tarsus.

“Whoa! Okay, okay he’s breathin’,” the contraption was instantly removed, and Jim started coughing and spluttering over himself, his vision distorted and blurred with tears.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, kid, it’s alright, relax,” he recognised that voice. That voice belonged to someone he had been trying to avoid for so long. He didn’t need his vision to realise who it was—Bones.

Jim gasped and shuffled back, shaking his head frantically. No, he couldn’t have this doctor anywhere near him. He didn’t want the surgery. No way. They were going to force him in there and do god knows what and hurt him just like the last time he had surgery.

“No” Jim choked out, “No, no, I don’t-I don’t-I don’t-I-don’t-No! No!”

“What? What’s wrong? Jim?”

“I don’t wanna do it!”

“Jim, listen to me—”

“No! No! Please, please! Please!”

“Jim, I need you to calm down darlin’—”

“Don’t make me! Please! Please don’t make me! Please! Please!”

McCoy shuffled closer, attempting to take Jim’s arm but the kid just jerked away.

“Jim—Jim you need to breathe—calm down, Jim, Jim…damn it,”

“What is happening?” Spock queried from the side, successfully hiding the emotions that were threatening to pour out of him.

“Panic attack,” McCoy answered gravely, “Jim, look at me—look at me—”

“No! No—no I won’t let you—no, no don’t touch me! Don’t fucking touch me!”

Spock clenched his fists, “Doctor, can you not sedate him?”

McCoy bit his lip, “With alcohol poisoning, the medication could kill him,” he swore under his breath, unsure of what to do at this point.

Jim’s eyes rolled around in their sockets as he struggled to catch his breath, his hands flying everywhere, trying to find something—anything to latch onto. He cried out in fear and tried to stand, falling backwards instantly, screaming incoherent nonsense.

“Jim? Jim, look at me,” McCoy coaxed again, trying to get the kid’s attention, “What’s wrong? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,”

Jim shook his head again, standing and falling four times before finally his legs couldn’t stand it anymore—his world was closing in on him, this man caved in, trapping him, there was no escaping.

Memories of the last time he had surgery pummelled into his mind, playing out in front of him as if he were really there, and in a haze- he screamed, and cried, kicking and punching to the figure that tried to get close to him, gasping, hyperventilating, begging him to go away because he did not want the surgery-he was never going to have it, he was terrified, he would rather die, he was so scared.

“No! — _gasp—_ No! — _gasp—_ No! — _gasp—_ No! — _gasp—"_

McCoy swore to himself as tears welled up in his eyes—he didn’t know what was happening to his friend or why he was so terrified of him, “Jim, what is it? Is it the surgery?”

At that, Jim let out an unholy screech and started slamming the back of his head against the wall, “I don’t want it! I don’t want it! I don’t—I don’t—I don’t—You can’t—You can’t make me! Please don’t make me! Please—Please—Please—Please—Please—Please—”

“Jim—”

“Please!”

“Jim.”

“Ple-e-e-ease don’t do this to me!”

“Darlin’ look at me, take some big deep breaths—"

“Please!”

“Come on, darlin’, look at me,”

“I don’t want it!”

“Doctor, you must do something…”

“You think I don’t know that?” Bones hissed, “Get my med-kit, I need to—just get it,”

Spock complied instantly, trying to get rid of the recent images of Jim’s outburst in the forefront of his mind, his wailing continuing in the background with McCoy trying and failing to soothe him.

McCoy opened his communicator, “McCoy to—” he froze when Jim let out another heart-wrenching scream, before gathering himself to continue, “McCoy to sickbay,” his voice shook uncontrollably. This was a rare situation where he had no idea what to do.

Spock stretched his arm forward with the medkit in hand, McCoy managing to lean forward and grab it with his free arm.

“ _Chapel here, what is it? What is that—goodness, what is that screaming? Is that—is that Jim?”_

“Yeah,” McCoy breathed steadily, “It’s a massive panic attack, he’s got severe alcohol poisoning, it’s dangerous to sedate him, I don’t—I don’t know what to do, Chris,”

With McCoy now talking over the communicator, Spock took this as his chance to stand and pace over to Jim’s trembling form curled up in a ball protectively, screaming nonsense and moaning.

He sat in front of him, blocking his view of McCoy, and as gently as he possibly could, lay a hand over Jim’s head. Scared blue eyes drifted from staring at the floor up to meet Spock’s.

“He’s—he’s—he’s—he’s—he’s gonna—he’s gonna hurt me,” Jim stuttered, his eyes frantically trying to look past Spock and lock onto McCoy, but the Vulcan was blocking the view.

“Jim. He will not hurt you. He would like to help. Please…help me to understand your fear.”

As soon as he said that, Spock turned his head as he heard his name being sharply called by McCoy. Jim however still hadn’t taken anything he said into account, now being back to staring at the floor and crying, so he swiftly shifted his body back to face McCoy.

“What is it, doctor?” Spock asked quietly. McCoy was still on the communicator.

“Nitrous Oxide. It’s still risky but less dangerous than full-blown sedation. We’ll have to man-handle him onto the bed, and it won’t be pleasant, but if I can get the medication into him, he should start to settle,” he informed Spock, “Nurse, do me a favour and check if he’s allergic to it, I haven’t had to use this on him before,” he asked Chapel through the communicator.

“Doctor, why give him Nitrous Oxide instead of a sedative?” Spock questioned. Surely it would be better to fully-sedate him rather than just keep him relaxed.

McCoy bit his lip, “Considering the only full-sedative he can take is Pepinotin, that drug will almost probably kill him with the alcohol in his system, but nitrous oxide, while still risky, has less of an effect on alcohol compared to Pepinotin. There’s a better chance.”

Spock nodded, dreading what he had to do to Jim now. “Could I not simply perform a nerve pinch?”

McCoy shook his head, “No, I don’t want you to. We don’t know what your Vulcan voodoo will do in his state,” he explained.

Spock physically had to stop himself from sighing, then turned to face Jim, who seemed even more petrified than he was three minutes ago.

Shuffling closer, and with great reluctance, he pinned Jim’s chest to ground, eliciting another cry of distress and kicking of the legs.

“I apologise, Jim,” he murmured, watching as McCoy quickly made his way to him.

“It’s fine, he’s not allergic—get his legs, you’re stronger,” he ordered, shuffling up to Jim’s torso, “I’ll get his arms,”

“NO!” Jim bellowed, kicking furiously as hard as he could. He would NOT let these people get to him. Hurt him. “Please! Stop! Please! Pl—” the crying stopped as he suddenly had a coughing fit.

“C’mon kid, up we go—"

McCoy and Spock hauled themselves—and Jim, to their feet, shuffling over to the hoverbed as fast as was physically possible, Spock managing to keep Jim’s ferocious kicking under control with that weird Vulcan strength of his.

Finally, they plonked him onto the bed, Spock’s hand effectively pinning him down while McCoy tried to set up the equipment.

“Stop—Stop—Stop! Please! Get off me! I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’ll—” another coughing fit.

“Doctor?” Spock urged him, his wrist beginning to tire. McCoy quickly strode over, shoving the small cannister behind the bed and snatching up the mask in the other hand.

“Jim? Jim, hey, look at me darlin’” he urged, tipping the kid’s chin up to face him.

“No—what—what are you—” as McCoy pressed the mask against his face, Jim’s eyes grew wide and his charade fired up again, kicking and wrenching around on the bed, to the point where even Spock was struggling.

“It’s okay, it’s gonna help you relax, alright?” McCoy was struggling to stop himself from bursting into a flurry of tears—this was so damn hard.

“I don’t wanna—don’t make me—don’t make me—I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”

“I know you don’t want it, you’re gonna be okay darlin’,”

“I don’t want—I don’t—I don’t want it—I don’t—I don’t—Stop! Stop!” Jim’s hand frantically waved around his face, trying to slap McCoy’s hand away from his face, but he found himself growing weaker. This just caused more alarm.

“I know…I know...I know…”

“Stop…please stop…please…” As Jim’s eyes started growing heavy, and his breathing laboured, McCoy grabbed hold of his flailing hand and rubbed his thumb over it in comfort.

“I know darlin’, I know…”

Soon enough, the only sound that could be heard in the room was the low hiss of the gas feeding into Jim’s mask. Spock and McCoy stood silently still, unable to bring themselves to move.  
Jim remained completely still on the bed, his eyes half-lidded, half-lucid, every now and then his eyes searched around the room.

“Jesus Christ…” McCoy finally broke the silence, “Let’s get him up to medbay, I can give him that injection that’ll slow down the infection while I run the detox. Should be about an hour before I can get him into surgery, but it’s gonna be tight, Spock. Really tight. I need you to understand that.”

Spock gazed at him for a few more seconds before acceptance sank in. Jim was very likely to die in surgery, and it was only logical to have to accept that.

He gave a nod, allowing both of them to grip onto the bed-rails and begin the journey up to the medbay.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, and McCoy was now wordlessly gazing over at the half-conscious Jim in a now empty medbay. His throat still felt tight from what he had just witnessed—his stubborn desire to remain calm and in control being the only factor stopping him from breaking down.

“Doctor, why did he behave in that way?” Spock almost made McCoy jump when he suddenly appeared out of no-where. He thought the damn Vulcan left.

“How the hell should I know?” he bit back, quietly sucking in a subtle deep breath to control himself, the tears were lingering in his eyes and were imminent.

“When will his body fail him from the infection?”

McCoy shut his eyes at this. He’d have to perform a miracle to save him. He was supposed to be in surgery nearly an hour ago, and he couldn’t bring him in for the minutes to come because of the damn alcohol poisoning. With the only anaesthesia that could be used on Jim’s ridiculously overactive immune system, putting him under in this state could very well kill him.

The chances of him surviving by waiting a little longer before surgery after going through detox was marginally more hopeful.

“His body is already failing him, Spock,” McCoy griped, “The longer we leave him like this, the worse the infection is getting, and I can’t do a damn thing because sedating him will almost certainly kill him,” his voice was low and dangerous, on the edge of lashing out. Thankfully Spock noticed and didn’t push him further.

“I believe he drank alcohol under the impression that you would not perform surgery,” Spock stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Yeah, you don’t fuckin’ say.” McCoy grunted, “Clearly he didn’t consider the fact that _not_ having the surgery could very damn well kill him,” he hissed, striding back over to Jim’s bed and grabbing a hypo from the tray, sitting down on a stool next to the bed.

Spock frowned, strangely protective of his Captain.

“What are you doing?”

McCoy scoffed, yanking the kid’s gown back and depressing the hypo into his abdomen, “What does it look like I’m doing? Trying to save his damn life is what I’m doing.”

Spock tilted his head and watched intensely. “What are the contents of the injection?”

McCoy slammed the hypo back onto the tray, “Damn it, must you want to know everything!” he shouted, angrily forcing himself to stand upright, “It’s slowing the infection, if you must know. At least I hope. Fighting it off. Unfortunately, it’s gonna damn well hurt when he’s awake, but he brought this on himself,”

After a few more seconds of silence, McCoy strode back to the bed, in a fit of rage and…sat down on the stool.

“You know that is not true.”

McCoy glared onwards, staring at the monitors as his vision blurred over with tears, before finally giving in and throwing his head onto the bed, leaning over Jim and crying into the blanket.

Instead of provoking, Spock decided to stay quiet for the time being. Jim was terrified for some reason, they both knew that he didn’t choose to drink himself into poisoning just to be difficult.

A feeling of guilt resided in the pit of Spock’s stomach. He had seen the first signs of Jim’s distress just yesterday in the turbolift. Yet, he remained quiet, under the illogical _human_ gut feeling of wanting to protect him.

If he had told McCoy about what happened, this could all have been avoided. In fact, Jim’s surgery could have been over by now, but instead…

“Doctor, I have a confession.”

McCoy sniffed into the blanket, and pried his head upwards, “What could it possibly be?” he croaked wearily.

“I…yesterday, Jim had, what you would describe as a meltdown in the turbolift. He appeared absent-minded, scared, in pain, and he had admitted his fear of the surgery to me when I carried him to his quarters—”

McCoy spun the stool around to face Spock in lazy anger, “You carried him?” he couldn’t find the energy to shout, “Why?”

“He…I believe he was having a flashback. He attacked me, and I performed a nerve-pinch on instinct. I had to carry him back to his quarters.”

McCoy merely nodded this time, turning back to Jim and glancing at his pale face. He couldn’t find it in him to be angry anymore.

“So, he was afraid of the surgery, huh,” he muttered, wheeling backwards until he was at the foot of the bed, adjusting the controls on the cannister.

“I believe so. What are you doing?”

“Reducing the nitrous oxide a little. Don’t want him to be over-exposed. Again.”

Spock became concerned over the possibility that Jim could wake up and start panicking again. “What if he regains consciousness?”

McCoy nearly laughed, “He _is_ awake, Spock. He’s just so drugged up that he can hardly move. I’m reducing it to see if I can make him somewhat aware, so I can start him on the detox.”

Just like McCoy predicted, Jim’s fingers began to clamp around the blankets as soon as the medication was reduced. Slowly, lazily, but it was there.

Cautiously, Bones stepped over to Jim’s line of vision, watching as Jim’s eyes followed him, gazing up at the doctor and opening his mouth to say something, then stopping.

“Hey darlin’,” Bones mumbled, gently closing his fingers around Jim’s, “You with me?”

It took a few seconds, but Bones eventually felt a very faint attempt at a squeeze around his fingers. He offered a smile and turned to Spock.

“He’s good. Can ya do me a favour and stay with him while I set up an IV? Might flip his shit or something if he sees a needle,” he joked, gently pulling away from Jim’s reach and moving out the way to let Spock through.

Spock awkwardly glanced down at Jim, unsure of what to say. He still seemed completely out of it, his eyes blinking slowly as if about to fall asleep.

“Captain.” He greeted him, which was rewarded with Jim’s eyes rolling up to face him. It took a few seconds, but he was able to reply,

“Spock…” he smiled weakly, trying to lift his hand and failing. “Why…why m’so…so sleepy?”

At that moment, McCoy gripped Jim’s wrist and turned his arm so that his palm faced the ceiling.

“Because you’re all drugged up on shit, you moron,” he joked, wiping a cloth over his wrist to Jim’s fascination, visibly cringing at the feel of McCoy’s latex gloves against his skin.

“Bones…” Jim mumbled, then rolled his head back to face Spock. “Spock”

The Vulcan forced himself not to smile—it was a relief to see him alert, although acting very strange.

“Slight pinch, Jim,” McCoy warned him, his thumb applying pressure, immediately followed by a pin-prick to his wrist.

Jim’s reaction was slow, but two seconds after, he gasped and whipped his head back to McCoy.

“Look back at Spock, kid,” McCoy urged gently, worried that the sight of the IV might trigger Jim to have another panic attack.

Jim however he obeyed, sluggishly gazing at Spock and smiling gleefully at him.

But Spock was concerned.

“Doctor, why is Jim acting so contented?”

Bones snorted, “Because he’s drugged to high hell, Spock,” he answered, Spock simply raised an eyebrow. “You’re doin’ real good, kid.”

Jim beamed as if he was back to his old self, seeming rather pleased with himself for whatever reason. Then, his eyes rolled inwards to his nose.

“Wha’dis?” he mumbled, raising a hand and pulling at the mask on his face. McCoy dropped Jim’s wrist,

“No no no, Jim, don’t touch that, kid,” he urged, dragging his free hand away from his face and patting it softly.

Jim gaped, “But why?”

“Because…because it’s giving you medicine to make you feel better,” Bones sighed.

“But m’feel fine!”

“Exactly. So, keep it on.”

Jim pouted at that, but left the mask alone.

All of sudden, Jim cringed and squeezed his eyes shut, his legs tensing and pressing on the bed. Spock stood up and stared at the doctor in alarm.

“Jim?” McCoy prompted worriedly, meeting Spock’s gaze, “You okay?”

Jim let out a choked sob and clawed his fingers into the mattress, “…hurts…”

“Uh-huh, Spock grab that hypo on the tray next to you, will ya?”

Spock instantly obliged, watching as McCoy pulled back Jim’s gown again, depressing the plunger already filled with a vial into Jim’s stomach.

“Infection is getting worse, I need to rush this detox,” McCoy mumbled, grabbing a syringe from behind him and holding up Jim’s wrist, “This might burn a little, but it’s normal, don’t worry about it,” he reassured him, sticking the syringe into the IV port and emptying its contents.

Jim started wriggling around on the bed, worrying Bones as his heartrate started increasing again, showing movements much the same as his panic attack earlier. “Darlin’ what’s wrong? Is something worrying you?”

Spock watched in amusement at the doctor’s vocabulary and caring demeanour over Jim, something that he had never ever seen from the CMO before.

“I don’t like th’thing in…” Jim raised his hand and started shaking it viciously.

“That’s…” Bones tried to think of a way he’d explain this to a scared child, “That lets me put medicine in your body, Jim.” He comforted him, grabbing Jim’s flailing hand and catching it in his own, worried he’ll dislodge the IV.

“Can I see?” Jim’s attitude suddenly changed, apparently interested in the detox all of a sudden.

“Uh…yeah, the second one goes in in about ten minutes, you can watch it then if you want,” he smiled, patting him on the shoulder and glancing up to his vitals. Luckily his heartrate had dropped back down to acceptable levels, and the pain had lessened which went the injection had worked.

“I wanna talk to Spock” Jim piped up, his other hand reaching out to the side Spock was on as if trying to grab him, while the Vulcan just stared at it perplexedly.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll just be over here,” McCoy smiled, backing away slowly and turning to march over to Chapel for a likely extremely lengthy conversation.

Jim turned to Spock, reaching out and gripping the hem of his shirt. The Vulcan narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the action.

“What is it, Jim?” he asked, staring down at the fingers wrapping around his shirt.

Jim hesitated for a second, then licked his cracked lips, “Why am I here?”

Spock frowned, sitting on the stool that McCoy had just left from, sitting up firmly straight, “I…believe that you had what the doctor calls a panic attack,” he replied, watching Jim’s face for a reaction. There was only an indication of worry before it settled back to relaxed again.

“Why was I panicking? I…I never panic,”

Spock forced himself to inhale and exhale a couple of times, “You were afraid of surgery,” he replied calmly, knowing that somehow, it was the wrong reply the second the words left his mouth.

It was, of course. It only took mere seconds before the beeping on Jim’s monitors grew rapid as memories came back to him, as _logic_ returned to his mind.

“Oh…oh. The…the surgery…I…”

“Captain, I apologise, this was not the correct choice of words, I merely mean—”

“I don’t…Spock…Spock I don’t want the surgery, I…oh god, I don’t…”

The sound of quick rapid rising and falling boots filled Spock’s ears as McCoy was alerted to Jim’s setback.

“Spock! What the hell did you do?” he yelled, running back over to Jim and feeling his breath leave his throat when he saw Jim’s utter fear for him.

“I apologise,” Spock repeated himself, realising what he had just done.

“Bones, please don’t operate on me, I don’t want it,” Jim begged, his eyes welling up again.

“Dammit Spock, I leave you alone with him for one second…” he strode to the controls on the end of the bed and raised the medication levels again, not wanting to risk Jim going into a full-blown panic attack.

“Wait!” Jim yelled, knowing what Bones was doing, “Don’t—don’t put me out again, I just—can’t we talk about this? I just—I…mmm…” he sighed, a long breath releasing from his lips as the drug pulled him back down.

There were a few moments of tense silence after this.

“Doctor, I—”

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy snapped, practically seething with rage, “He was getting _better._ Why the hell did you tell him about the surgery? What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouted, storming over and just about manage to restrain himself from grabbing the Vulcan by the collar.

“I did not intend for this to happen. He wanted to know why he was here, and I told him the truth.”

“He’s not Vulcan, dammit!” the CMO shouted, jamming another detox drug into Jim’s IV, “If he’s panicking over something and he forgets why he was panicking, you don’t tell him the damn reason so that he starts panicking again!”

Spock remained silent, not attempting to stop the guilt that surrounded his mind. Jim had relapsed and it was _his_ fault.

Then, to make matters worse, another alarm started sounding over the monitor.

McCoy stopped his rant to glance up at it, taking in the results and noticing the infection was spreading to Jim’s chest.

“Shit,” he raced to the instrument tray and pulled out another drug. “Nurse! Get in here, now!”

Spock stood to attention in alarm and stepped out of the way, “What is happening?” he asked, berating himself for the shakiness of his voice.

Chapel marched into the room, glanced up at the monitor for merely a second and then nodded to McCoy, “I’ll get Boyce to cover sickbay and scrub in,” she explained, darting off to change into scrubs.

“Infection is still spreading—I can’t leave it any longer, we’ll have to risk it,” he replied to Spock, rummaging through the instrument tray and swearing when he couldn’t find any masks left. “Chris, I need another mask!” he shouted across the room, running to the foot of the bed and lowering Jim down flat.

“Doctor—”

“Get out of here, Spock,” McCoy hissed, as Boyce suddenly came marching into the room with the CMO’s scrubs.

“Thought I’d bring these with me,” he retorted, throwing the uniform over McCoy as he tried to get Jim prepped.

“Yeah, thanks Boyce,” he murmured, Chapel now coming in too.

“We only have rubber left, the plastic ones are being sanitized during shore leave,” she explained, handing him a rubber mask, which was rarely used these days.

“That’s fine, just get him under,” he ordered, pulling down the surgical mask under his chin that Boyce hooked over his face.

“Which medication we using here?” Boyce asked, aware of Jim’s many allergies, tugging out tray of anaesthetics and smacking it on top of the table.

“Pepinotin. Detox hasn’t had a chance to completely run through his system but he’s doomed if we leave it for any longer,” McCoy explained, waiting for Chapel to turn off the nitrous oxide before removing the mask Jim had on now and switching the cannisters over.

“Get me my medical team, I’m gonna need at least six,” McCoy added, staring up at the monitors and reading off the list of problems they were going to soon spend hours fixing, “Total loss of renal function in his right kidney, forty percent loss in his left, infection has spread from his abdominal cavity up to his chest, we won’t yet know what exactly it’s actually infected until we get in there,” he explained. Boyce nodded and ran off to comm the medical staff to assist.

Bones’ heart skipped a beat when he looked down and saw Jim’s fearful eyes looking up at him.

Of course. He was off the nitrous now.

“Bones—”

“Nurse, hand me the mask.”

“Bones please…”

Jim fearfully swallowed hard, trembling nervously as McCoy gripped his chin and pressed the mask over his face.

“Deep breaths, Jim. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“M’scared…”

“I know, darlin’, just breathe this in for me. You’ll wake up later and everything will be over.”

Jim, still dazed from the nitrous, blinked slowly and didn’t put up a fight this time. The mask constricted most of his view, but he saw Bones attempt a weak reassuring smile to him.

And that was the last thing he saw before welcoming the darkness.

* * *

Spock paced nervously outside the OR doors. Doctor McCoy had been in there with numerous medical staff for at least seven hours now. He had been sitting down and pacing back and forth the whole time—Boyce even offered for him to nap on one of the bio-beds and joked about doing a physical to pass the time, but nothing unnerved him more than his Captain’s life hanging in the balance.

And what he couldn’t help, as illogical as it were, was playing back the events of today in his head. Memories of Jim’s screaming and crying—it was so unlike the Captain, it made everything even worse.

With this in mind, he was sure something was wrong with him.

He was about to take Boyce up on his offer for an exam before McCoy suddenly burst through the doors, absolutely stained from head to toe in blood, it looked like something out of a Terran horror movie.

McCoy caught Spock’s gaze, yanked his surgical mask down and shook his head.  
Spock felt like he was going to throw up, before McCoy offered a smile and shook his head again,

“No, no, Spock, I didn’t mean that. He’s alive, it was just…it was bad. It was really, really bad.”

Spock pursed his lips, and quietly asked, “Please elaborate.”

McCoy sighed, and perched himself to the chair next to him.

“Well, ah…he’s not going to be leaving here anytime soon. The infection managed to spread to his chest from being left for so long, his heart was beginning to deteriorate, and he crashed on the table twice. Obviously, his appendix is gone, both his kidneys are gone and have been replaced with new early-stage grown ones, so he’ll be on dialysis until they’re fully grown,” he explained carefully, “There is nothing there that will get him kicked out of Starfleet, but you’re gonna be sitting in that chair for at least a month.”

Spock nodded solemnly, glancing up when the doors banged open again, the Captain being wheeled through. He looked ashen, and his hair was an absolute mess. What shocked him though was the fact that there were various tubes sticking out of his mouth and out of his chest.

“Don’t worry about it, Spock,” McCoy reassured him, “He’s on a ventilator until he can breathe on his own, and those tubes stickin’ out of his chest are for the dialysis machine. Let us clean him up a bit, then you can go see him, yeah?”

Spock nodded again gratefully, remaining seated while McCoy strode back over to the others and guided them into a cubicle.

There was no word in the Vulcan vocabulary that could express how relieved he was.

* * *

_Three hours later._

Pain. It was the first thing he registered. There was pain in his head, in his throat, in his chest, and in his abdomen. The pain made him want to cry.

“Jim?”

Who was trying to call his name? That was strange, he was in the middle of nowhere. Darkness. He was alone. Yet someone else was there, calling his name.

Slowly, but surely, he began to push himself to the surface—the surface of what he did not know, but he felt like he was getting closer to something. It was almost like a fight, to claw his way to the surface, to struggle and crawl until he could breathe the air.

Except he couldn’t breathe.

Almost all at once, he heard high-pitched alarms hammer into his skull, screaming and wailing—a constant beeping—it made the pain worse.

“Jim!”

“Jim, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

Jim managed to feel fingers slip around his skin—his hand. Trying to obey the person in the darkness with him, Jim mustered strength to squeeze very lightly around the fingers that latched around his.

That command didn’t help him breathe.

“Okay, Jim I need you to cough for me, on three,”

Jim didn’t understand. How do you cough on three? Why? Three was a number. He didn’t want to play games, he couldn’t breathe.

He groaned—a bad idea, the breath hitched in his throat.

His eyes flew open in alarm, the world returning to him all at once. Something was sticking out of his mouth, he didn’t like it. There was a man in white standing over him, a deep frown on his face—it seemed familiar.

“One, two, three,”

Jim shook his head and started thrashing, why was he counting!? He couldn’t breathe!

“Okay—Jim, Jim, calm down, you’re on a ventilator and we need to take it out, now when I count to three, you need to cough. Do you understand?”

Jim rapidly nodded, his hands clawing against the mattress in desperation.

“One, two, three—” Jim coughed, and the tube nastily slid out of throat, sending him spluttering and coughing over himself—and the pain intensified. He moaned, tears spilling at his eyes instantly as white-hot _searing_ pain ravaged through his chest.

“Twenty cc’s of bicaridine,” he heard the man say to someone behind him, who turned back and then pulled back an eyelid, creating a magical bright light.

“Pupils reacting and responsive,” the man said, moving to his other eye, blinding that eye with the magic light for a few seconds then put the device away.

Jim heard another alarm sounding, the man above him swore and ended up strapping a mask to his face. Jim frowned in confusion.

The alarm stopped.

“Someone get Spock and tell him the idiot is awake,” at that moment, whatever was entering Jim’s lungs now seemed to make everything kind of click for Jim, and he realised that man above him was Bones.

“Bones” Jim croaked, cringing at how harsh his voice sounded. Bones glanced down towards him and smirked.

“Hey yourself, kid. Told you it wasn’t so bad, didn’t I?”

Jim blinked slowly, “But I still hurt everywhere,” he moaned, reaching for the annoying mask on his face and trying to drag it off.

McCoy smacked his hand away. “Don’t you play with that, Jim. I’ve just given you Bicaridine, so you should start to feel better soon.”

Spock approached him after that. McCoy saw him, nodded down to Jim and stepped out of the way.

"Bones!" Jim called after him, who glanced back with an alarmed look on his face. "Thank you...for everything"

Bones' frown merged into a smile, "Aw, you getting all sentimental on me? You're welcome, darlin',"

Then he turned to Spock and narrowed his eyes, “Do me a favour and make sure he keeps that mask on,” Bones ordered, before slapping Jim on the shoulder and walking away. Jim smirked as Bones left the room, a warm feeling swirling in his stomach when looking at him. Frankly, he didn't want him to leave. Luckily he only moved 7 steps away to speak to Chapel.

Spock seated himself on the stool beside Jim’s bed. His hair didn’t seem as immaculate as usual, in fact he looked like he’d just woken up.

Was he asleep and had just come running to Jim the second he was told he was awake…?

“Jim,” Spock greeted him quietly, “I am…most pleased that you are awake.”

Jim shrugged and started playing with the rails on his bed.

“You don’t look like you slept either,” Jim joked, attempting to reach a hand out to touch it then dropping it back on the bed with exhaustion. Such effort.

“I was…understandably concerned for your condition.” Spock muttered, offering a rare, but hidden slight smirk.

Jim reached out his hand through the rails, glancing up to Spock with his trademark blue begging eyes.

The Vulcan glanced at his hand in confusion, then looked up to his face, trying to decipher what he wanted. Then, timidly, he pushed his hand into Jim’s, and watched curiously as Jim’s fingers curled around his.

“Fascinating,” Spock muttered, wondering why Jim was doing this. Perhaps it’s a unknown form of communication.

“Spock,” Jim croaked, smiling a little, “I’m trying to hold your hand” he quietly admitted. Spock raised his eyebrows, but agreed to this strange form of Terran comfort.

“Are we gonna get in trouble?” the blonde asked, his eyes half-lidded as if we were about to fall asleep. Spock was confused.

“For what would we get ‘in trouble’ for, Jim?”

“Well…” Jim licked his lips in thought, “You knew that I had that meltdown in the turbolift but neither of us said anything.”

Spock glanced over to McCoy. He was standing with Chapel and Boyce, probably reviewing Jim’s notes.  
“Ah. Doctor McCoy already knows of the incident. He did not seem phased by it.”

Jim narrowed his eyes—how the hell did he find out?  
“Wha…how did he…?”

“Jim. I told him myself. I…I confessed _._ ”

Jim smiled widely, “You were feeling _guilty_ , Spock?” he teased. Spock straightened himself up, although didn’t let go of Jim’s hand.

“No, Jim. Never. I am not capable of those emotions.”

Jim smiled, tightening his grip on Spock’s hand and shutting his eyes.

“Of course you’re not, Spock. Of course you’re not.”

 

 

**Well that is The. End. Finally. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed, you probably cringed at least 4 times from how many plot twists there were hahaha…poor Jim. Don’t forget to leave kudos because it temporary increases the adrenaline rush in my body when it pops up in my email.**

**If you enjoy UnfortunateSuffering!Jim then feel free to look at “Sectioned”, as I’ll be carrying on with that now!** ****


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